


Man vs. Nature

by XavierWalker



Series: Aziraphale's Guide to Intimacy and Love [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Introspection, M/M, Other, somewhat self-harming behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:57:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19430206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XavierWalker/pseuds/XavierWalker
Summary: Crowley’s typical morning routine requires a lot of hate.





	Man vs. Nature

Crowley’s typical morning routine requires a lot of hate.

This works well for him, because slithering, roiling, true and ancient _hatred_ is something that Crowley has had in spades ever since his Fall. It trembles beneath his skin like a second membrane and pulls itself taut at inopportune moments.

Morning hits his flat at an unfortunate angle, forcefully pouring sunlight through the windows and onto the silky black sheets he inevitably finds himself tangled up in. The still-reptilian part of his brain would find the subtle warmth comforting if the aching brightness of it all didn’t sear through his eyelids like the Lord Herself is dropping by to say hello.

So he wakes. Hating the morning light from his strategically-placed curtainless windows. Shivering and curled up in a ball beneath his uselessly thin silk sheets. He disentangles himself with gritted teeth and slinks over to the bathroom.

His knuckles turn white as he grips the sink and _glares_ into the mirror. A suit of unspeakably accurate fashion knits itself into existence around him and the fabric is of an irritating texture that lingers in the back of his mind whenever he makes the slightest movement.

His sleek shoes, half a size too small, shine impressively in the flickering bathroom light. His hair is just a shade too red for his taste, annoyingly bright to his sensitive eyes. The plastic arms of his sunglasses pinch behind his ears and give him a headache.

He storms through the halls towards the garden room, worked up into a proper snit, and begins the daily chore of screaming grotesque threats at the quivering foliage. He wields the spray bottle like an overcharged holy weapon and pretends he’s smiting all of them with each vigorous spray.

(He’ll never admit to how upset he is that he was kicked out of heaven before ever having a real reason to smite anything. He wonders what it feels like to have that much righteous power.)

By the time he reaches Aziraphale for their morning get-together, a new post-apocalyptic custom that involves toast and eggs (for his angel) and horrendously bitter coffee (for him), he’s gotten most of it out of his system and settled into his self-inflicted uncomfortable existence like an old hat.

“Have you tried sugar?” Aziraphale interrupts his internal musings with a curious look that usually spells trouble for the both of them.

“Huh?” He blinks and uncrosses his legs, letting the blood flow back into his calves with a tingling sensation. “For what?”

“Your coffee, dear,” chides Aiziraphale, as though it should be quite obvious. Crowley supposes it could have been, if he hadn’t zoned out roughly ten minutes ago. “You make faces every time you drink it.”

“I do _not_ ,” he scoffs.

“You do!”

“Don’t,” he insists. Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “And to answer your question: Yes, I have. I prefer it without all that nonsense.”

“Whatever you say, my dear boy,” is the doubtful reply. Crowley tries not to let resentment boil up through the cracks of his soul like tapped oil.

===

A similar situation. When Crowley ponders the two occurrences later on, he’s not quite sure why they’re so solidly linked in his mind. He thinks it might have something to do with the look on Aziraphale’s face.

Curiosity. Bewilderment. A touch of frustration, for whatever reason.

“...And that’s what has them growing so well?” asks the angel mildly. Crowley has just brought him home to show off his legendary assortment of flora, and given him a proper show of the sort of hard work it takes to keep the wily creatures in tip-top shape.

“Exactly,” he answers proudly, voice somewhat hoarse from all of the furious shouting. “Humans found out about talking to plants a while ago, but I’ve gone and turned it into a proper art form.”

“...I see.”

Crowley struggles to keep his ego from plummeting at the lack of starry-eyed praise coming from Aziraphale. That was the whole reason he’d brought him here, after all.

“Have you tried it the other way?” Aziraphale suggests, in the exact same tone he’d taken when asking about the coffee. As if ‘have you tried’ isn’t a rather insulting thing to say to someone who’s been doing the same thing for decades. “Being nice?”

Crowley hisses. “ _Nice_ is a four-letter word--”

“By God, Crowley!” Aziraphale laughs, and Crowley watches as the blooms take note and turn just barely towards him, as though he’s something better than the evening sunlight Crowley has ever-so-generously provided them.

He tries to glare at them, but Aziraphale steps purposefully into view, blocking his attempts at admonishment.

“Really, dear, don’t you think you could try it?” asks Aziraphale reproachfully, looking so daringly sweet amongst the flowers that Crowley finds himself agreeing without really understanding why.

===

The next day, he marches into that very same room, shivering and angry, and gets halfway through opening his mouth to scream before remembering the promise he’d made.

“Uh,” is all that ends up coming out. The plants perk up at this sign of weakness and he snarls. “You-- you--!”

They wait expectantly.

“...are trying your...best?” he ends weakly. One of the vines slackens with surprise and falls off of the wall. The daisies immediately begin colluding to overthrow him. One particularly hardy fern shudders and suddenly has twice as many leaves. “You are very… impressive.”

He walks hesitantly between the rows, spritzing them with water in less of a smiting manner and more of a gentle misting rain. In one darker corner, he finds a small quivering spider plant that shrinks under his gaze. His well-trained eyes easily spot the wilting leaves in the back, despite the plant’s attempts at shoving the offending pieces into the dirt.

His mouth tightens into one tense line, and he thinks about what Aziraphale might do, if he were here. “You’re lucky this happened today, of all days.”

He brings the spider plant further into the light and inspects the damaged bits. It spasms under his yellow-eyed stare. After a moment, he reluctantly showers the thing in water and clears his throat. “Other than that unsightly failure, you’re a rather nice shade of green. Keep up the good work.”

His mouth falls open in shock as the thing visibly perks up, some color coming back to into the faded side. In a moment of pure instinct, he reaches out and touches it with something like wonder.

The spider plant bursts into vibrancy and sprouts three glorious, bright white flowers that Crowley has never once seen in nearly three years of owning the damn thing.

He drops the spray bottle and flees the room, suddenly viscerally terrified for no discernible reason. He dives under the bed and manages a good three weeks of brooding before Aziraphale finds him.

He hisses as he’s dragged out into the light by a tsking angel, forcibly escorted to breakfast like a belligerent child.

===

He stares at himself in the mirror.

“Trying your…”

The word ‘best’ dries on his tongue like desert sand, a mirage painfully dispelled by reality. He exhales shakily and tries again.

“Look so… good,” he says lamely. It’s not right. He hates it. “Great job.”

He imagines Aziraphale saying it and blushes. His shoes come out the right size and his suit is soft to the touch. He debates over his sunglasses, then decides to have them pinch as usual.

Baby steps.

===

"Your aura is very nice today, my dear,” hums Aziraphale. Crowley tries not to squirm in his seat, miracling away the flush that crawls up his neck.

“Not sure what you mean,” he mumbles, and the angel giggles.

Crowley scowls and glances at the sugar bowl.

Maybe tomorrow.


End file.
